


thirty five.

by Kas_tiel



Category: Supernatural
Genre: All Seasons, Character Study, Flashbacks, Gen, Introspection, Kinda, Past Character Death, Past Torture, Protect Sam Winchester, Sam Winchester Has PTSD - Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder, Sam Winchester is Loved, Spoilers, The Author Regrets Everything, The Author Regrets Nothing, refernced other core characters, season 14
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-23
Updated: 2019-01-23
Packaged: 2019-09-30 02:39:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,225
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17215463
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kas_tiel/pseuds/Kas_tiel
Summary: Humanity is only ever gorgoeus to Sam Winchester. The world and it's people were flawed, he knows that more than most, but Sam never stops loving others. He focuses on them, when it goes dark, and makes them his light- he counts them to remember.





	thirty five.

**Author's Note:**

> My first official Supernatural fanfiction on here, brought on by Sam's messy feelings and an immense love for watching him overcome obstacle after obstacle. Sam Winchester is a painful character to think about- he has been through so, so much, and he is still going. 
> 
> This was birthed after over-thinking about that very fact.

**One, two, three-**

 

In Lebanon, Kansas, there is a bunker. It lies empty, too big for the things it holds (pages centuries old, words faded and burning with traces of death and something other), and far too small for the things it does not (children's laughter, ringed fingers, scattered picture books). To anyone passing through, the place would be comforting; homely, ancient, and a fairy tale. To a man older than he looks and braver that he believes himself to be, the place only suffocates.

 

**-four, five, six-**

 

Three hours and thirty-six minutes away, in a city called Lawrence, there is a house. Death has written testimony on it's walls, and screams of a wronged mother still echo in the dreams of all those who sleep there, but the house is _good_. Despite the evidence of darkness buried thirty-five-years deep into it's core, and because of the work of a woman named after a state and crafted in the face of a savior, the house will _stay_ good.

 

**-seven, eight, nine-**

 

Saving his eldest son Dean, Sam Winchester's father dies without saying goodbye. It is sudden, unexpected, and cruel- his dad hated hospitals, and that's the only thing said between the men for the next two days.

 

**-ten, eleven, twelve-**

 

Sam- the Boy with the Demon Blood- dies, the first time, because of demonic destiny. It is painful, and his brother is right there, and he is scared ( _so, so scared, because what happened to_ _tainted souls like him?)_.

 

**-thirteen, fourteen, fifteen-**

 

Dean dies, ten months later, because of bringing _him_ back.

 

**-sixteen, seventeen, eighteen-**

 

_('You listen well, you black-eyed bastard,' Sam likes to think is what his brother said, so many nights ago, 'You give me Sam back, or- so help me God- I will make sure that you are screamin' and beggin' for Hell by the time I am done with you,')_

 

 _**-** _ **nineteen, twenty, twenty one-** _  
_

 

These deaths are only loosely related.

 

**-twenty two, twenty three, twenty four-**

 

Loose, in Sam's head, has a completely different meaning. Loose means that they are connected through veins, crudely cut open and leaking blood; loose means they are woven together, haphazardly stacked in a barren graveyard that existed only in his mind and covered with his signature; loose means that they are completely related, and undeniably events caused by his existence (or lack thereof).

 

**-twenty five, twenty six, twenty seven-**

 

An Angel named Castiel brings his brother back, and thinks the hate he felt for the messenger (for doing _his_ job, for succeeding in a journey he was too afriad to venture on, for existing and yet never answering any of the prayers his ten-year-old self would whisper at the foot of motel beds) would never ebb.

 

**-twenty eight, twenty nine, thirty-**

 

He's wrong. Love and family and safety, just like he felt towards his big brother, were the only things he could now assosciate with Cass; a _good_ family had never been something Sam had known well, but somehow- slowly and carefully- he was beginning to create one.

 

**-thirty one, thirty two, thirty three-**

 

Before all that, though- before the good and the light and the assurance in those around him- is the blood. Maybe, because it coarsed through his veins and was part of the very system helping his heart beat, Sam was always destined to love it's bitterness. Maybe he was destined to crave it and the way it burned and thrummed inside his body, waking every single feared thought in his mind until he was _un_ afraid. Maybe, _just maybe_ , he was always _meant_ _to be_  wrong and bad and everything unholy.

 

**-thirty four, thirty five, thirty six-**

 

(The thought keeps him up on nights long after his dependency has gone. A dirty knife, a dead body, and his curiosity would peak, beg him for just one little taste, just to test if he could still resist. Sam would never do it, of course- he'd entertain the idea, count the pro's and con's on the backs of his fingers like a child when alone, but  _never_ do it... he would only think of the what if's, wonder at his own possible reactions, and that would be enough to steal his sleep and corrupt his dreams.)

 

**-thirty seven, thirty eight, thirty nine-**

Thinking it was good repentance, that maybe the fire could and would somehow wipe away the hurt he had caused the world like breath on a mirror, Sam closes his eyes and refuses to beg when he throws himself in Hell. He screams, and he cries, but he never asks for reprieve; humanity- beautiful, kind, broken humanity,  would fall if he (if _Lucifer_ ) did not, and Sam could never wish that.

 

**-forty, forty one, forty two-**

Humanity is only ever gorgoeus to Sam Winchester. The world and it's peeople were flawed, he knows that more than most, but Sam never stops loving others. He focuses on them, when it goes dark, and makes them his light- he counts them to remember.

 

**-forty three, forty four, forty five-**

 

Sam spends all his life counting the gorgeous things, even the years when he doesn't need reminding. He notes them down in the back of his mind, turns their matchlessness and valour into stories for his brother and friend's when they need something to keep going for, and hides their scent in his memory so that- if he ever did lose himself- he knew what he had to come back for.

 

**-forty six, forty seven, forty eight-**

 

Weaving itself between all available crevises of his life so that he may never forget, trying to _destroy_ that very purpose, death never does leave Sam.

 

**-forty nine, fifty, fifty one-**

There is Dean- struglling, breathing harsh and strong and scaring him to his core-  damns him with the quietest words:  _'I'm proud of us.'_

 

**-fifty two, fifty three, fifty four-**

Sometimes, when Sam recalls that day and those words, he curses his brother for knowing exactly what he needed to hear, and curses himself for never saying that he was proud of them, too.

 

**-fifty five, fifty six, fifty seven-**

 

Then there is Jack- quiet, curious and _so_ young, _his_ responsibility, the one kid whose loss he knew he would never have been able to handle: ' _Then it'll be an advemture.'_

 

**-fifty eight, fifty nine, sixty-**

 

Sam promises himself, when Jack comes back, that he would show him a _real_ adventure. One full of laughter and light and family, devoid completely of darkness and- and fire or funeral pyres (Sam also promises himself that Jack would be the last in the long list of people to go before him). 

 

**-sixty one, sixty two, sixty three-**

 

Sam also promises himself to be good; he promises himself to stay kind to those who deserve it, and ruthless to those who never would; he promises himself to carry every single tragedy in his life with him, and to never bury the sadness until he buried himself,  _because that sadness deserved to be acknowledged._

 

**-sixty four, sixty five, sixty six-**

 

In a bunker three-hours and thirty-six minutes away from a city called Lawrence, for the first time in his thirty-five years alive and with strength you will never be able to understand and reasons he will will never fully be able to decipher, Sam Winchester promises himself to stay alive. 

 

**\--**

 

 

 

 

 

 

__

**Author's Note:**

> I am very, very sorry. Seriously.
> 
> I would love to hear your thoughts- this was a pleasure and a pain to write, so comments and kudos are extremely appreciated. 
> 
> stay alive, guys. always here.


End file.
